Nil Mortifi Sine Lucre
by AbigailTunbridge
Summary: As every Discworld fan knows, everything has to happen somewhere. In this case, Sam Vimes had a daughter. And what school do the sons and daughters of Ankh-Morpork aristocracy go to? Well, we know the answer to that, don't we, boys and girls…
1. Chapter 1

Imagine a twilight graveyard and three men in the shadows. One of them is carrying the other over his shoulder, and this one seems to be tied up. The last man is leaning both hands on the top of his cane. Voices float through the purple air. "Congratulations, your grace."

"I suppose so."

"On the birth of your son, I meant."

"Oh…yes. Oh. Of course. Yes. Well…thank you."

"A healthy lad, I am given to understand."

"We'd have been just as happy with a daughter."

Ah-_ha_. And once more, a leg of the infamous Trousers of Time opens up, and we are hurtling through it, past spinning galaxies and strange clouds and through the multi-coloured fire at the heart of stars until-

Darkness. Chthonic darkness, that puts the impossible[1] watcher in mind of a black cat in a coal cellar at midnight. The kind of absolute darkness, in fact, that may be worn by Death as his robe. And then… a shifting of perspective, and the watcher sees that what they had originally thought was part of the inter-stellar vastness of space is the actually the ice-rimed, crater-pocked surface of a giant flipper, and this flipper is connected to a carapace, and on this carapace are four gigantic elephants, and on the backs of these four elephants-

This is the Discworld, world and mirror of worlds, one Universe amongst many. It coasts gently on the bubbled surf of Fantasy, sloshing across the rocky beach of Reality. Observe. At the very centre, there stands Cori Celesti, home of the most ragged and argumentative pantheon ever to be brought to life by belief. See the Circle Sea, forever draining away into space. See the Counterweight Continent, and dusty Fourecks, Lancre of witches, the Chalk and Klatch. Let the Sto Plains pass below the watcher towards the haze of smoke, smog, fumes and steam that denotes the position of city of cities, Ankh-Morpork. And now, zoom in…_closer_.

* * *

[1] At least, if they are not intangible, then their recent sojourn through space and time has left them confused, temporally unmoored and of a consistency that will be something akin to lumpy Bolognese once they thaw out.


	2. Chapter 2

_This_ is the Guild of Assassins, where it is the first day of the new term, and many worried parents are dropping their equally worried offspring at the Dark Gates, where their fascinating, vibrant and deadly (at least for _someone_) education is about to begin.

And now another carriage draws up. Not showy, but definitely the vehicle of someone who knows the importance of first impressions. This is why there are also, discreetly, a few Watchmen not so far away, and, rather less discreetly, Sergeant Detritus, for whom discretion comes as naturally as flying does to a rock.

The carriage door opens. A man with salt-and-pepper hair gets out, dressed in battered armour and scruffiness, followed by what could either be a perambulating bundle of clothes or a child wrapped so tightly in coats, scarves and gloves that the most it can manage is a kind of mince, like a still bandaged mummy trying to walk.

A voice floats after them, as a valet- tattoos just visible over his collar- lifts down a trunk.

"Sam, dear, do take her case for her." The voice precedes its owner- a large, kind looking woman with brown hair and pale blue eyes. The man, muttering under his breath about something, lifts one end of the trunk and drags it over the cobbles, until a gently disapproving glance prompts him to lift it. His man rushes over, but Sam grunts out,

"I can take my own daughter's case, thank you, Willikins."

The tattooed man backs off respectfully and trails after the family as they go in. The other aristocratic families standing in the courtyard look on in horror as the Vimes family enter, and Sam plonks the trunk down rather more heavily than perhaps is warranted. Lady Sybil bends down to adjust the outer most layer of the bundle of clothes.

"Don't forget to write, dear."

A small voice sounds from within, rather muffled by layers of wool.

"Yes, Mum."

"Remember to concentrate in lessons, and don't be cheeky."

"I'll try, Mum."

"Well, then." Sybil straightens up. "Say goodbye, Sam."

She glides off to speak to an old friend, smiling beatifically at those she passes. Her husband glances over at her, then crouches before his child. "Now, if any of these smarmy bug-"

He stops himself in time, possibly because the back of Sybil's head seems to be watching him. "If any of your school mates," he growls instead, "give you any trouble, you know what to do, right?"

"Don't worry Daddy, I remember everything Nobby taught me."

"Good. Good." He seems to think of something. "Exactly _how much_ did he teach you?"

"Nothing I don't think you wouldn't want me to know."

"Ah. Right. Right." He straightens up and glares round the assembled aristocrats. They hurriedly look away before his searchlight gaze.

He looks back down at the child and a little of the gruffness seems to go out of him, because she is watching him solemnly. "Alright lass, peel off a couple of layers."

A gloved hand reaches up to pull off the multidinous hats, and a mass of dark hair falls out, the same shade as Sam's. The eyes beneath the infringing fringe are charitably called dark hazel rather than simply brown, a legacy from the Ramkin forebears. The expression in them, though, is one of quizzical intelligence, cut with more than a little suspicion- passed down from her father.

"Your Grace, this is a pleasant surprise!" this is from Lord Downey, Head of the Guild of Assassins, who is hurrying towards them with the kind of smile reserved for policemen, important people you aren't actually happy to see, and people who own the freehold of the land your livelihood stands on. Happily, Sir Samuel encapsulates all three incarnations of the reluctantly-received-unexpected visitor.

"Is it?" He replies shortly. "It shouldn't be."

This brings Downey up short. "Ah. Yes, well," he rubs his hands together and glances down at Samuel Vimes's daughter. Immediately, his tone becomes sugary. "Hello, Miss Vimes."

There is a moment where all the child does is blink at him. Her father stares fixedly across the courtyard at some internal vision.

"Hello, sir."

Downey smiles "You are very polite, aren't you? Tell me, has your Daddy taught you all about the street?"

She nods along with him, wide-eyed and innocent. "Oh yes. Everything."

Sir Samuel coughs. "Not quite…everything."

She continues, Downey fixed in her gaze. "I can spell patronising, too."

His face seems to freeze for a moment. Without moving his gaze from the distant wall, Vimes coughs again.

"Sorry, Dad."

Another, more pointed cough. "Sorry, sir."

Downey's eyes now hold a faint animal desperation as he straightens up again. "You must be very proud of your daughter, Sir Samuel. And now, if you'll excuse me…" the Assassin hurries off, mopping his brow.

"_Irene._"

The girl looks up. "Al_right_, Dad."

"What did your mother say?"

"Don't try to be cheeky." She mumbles defiantly.

"You don't _need_ to try, my lass."

"You're always rude about them." She hisses from somewhere near his hip.

"That's different."

She scowls. "Is this the "I walk amongst them so I know what I'm talking about" kind of different?"

"Yes. Now be good, your Mum's coming back."

Sibyl returns and says, through smiling teeth, "How was your conversation with Francis, Sam?"

"Oh, he just said hello, dear."

"Hmm." Lady Sybil gives her husband the kind of look that long-married couples always give each other- a kind of, "I suspect that you are not telling me the exact truth, but because you're not exactly lying and you wouldn't about something important, I shall not pursue this further."

All of a sudden, a bell rings- not the fashionably late Guild Bell, dangling high up above in its tower, but a small brass bell on a wooden handle, which is gripped by the stubby fingers of a man in sombre robes.

"Attention!" his reedy voice echoes off the stone walls. "Children to _this_ side of the courtyard please!"

The hubbub rises as parents dispense advise, warnings and spending money, and little boys scrabble to get away from adoring mothers. Sam and Sybil watch as their daughter hurries into line, dragging the case over the cobbles.

"Sam."

"Yes, dear?"

"You didn't put anything in her case, did you?"

"Such as, dearest?"

"Anything of a pointed, sharpened nature, Sam?"

"No, dear."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"Anything, perhaps, of a brassy persuasion?"

"I do not recall doing so, my dear."

"Right. Just checking."

The boys and girls separated into two groups and were led out by their tutors. Irene turned and waved at her parents.

"It's not as though she'd need it."

"Quite right."

"Not in the Assassins' Guild."

"She'll be fine, Sam."

"Oh, I know, dear. I just hope they will be."


End file.
